A Song of Dungeons and Dragons
by GreatWyrmGold
Summary: Strange magics bring a party of adventurers to a stranger world, where no one can cast spells, dungeons are full of criminals instead of treasure, and there are no dragons. At least, there weren't until recently...
1. Clerenbald

This story was largely inspired by Harry Potter and the Natural 20 by Sir Poley. Naturally, it's also inspired by A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin and Dungeons and Dragons by Gary Gygax, but you probably already knew that.

* * *

 _When in doubt, go to a tavern._ Words to adventure by.

Clerenbald Frostblight had certainly spent his share of time in taverns, between time spent fighting such menaces as goblins, orcs, warlords, frost giants, an evil cult, demons, and a white dragon. And, most recently, the dark conjurer Xibahn, a man of extreme power. He had to be at _least_ thirteenth level, since he summoned a pair of chaos beasts with one spell. Magic wasn't Clerenbald's _forte_ —that was Maruina's job—but it paid to be familiar with all of the rules. Literally, at times.

Xibahn was low on his points, but his summoned monsters and bound demon were wreaking havoc on the party. Maruina was trying to counter or dispel whatever spell he was casting, Stillshadow was fumbling with a melting wand in his corporeal unstable hand, and Clothair, the little nut, was telling everyone to hold onto something while he tried to stuff his portable hole in Thedret's bag of holding. Clerenbald tried using his trump card, the Rod of Wonder...then everything went dark and very, very loud.

He found himself in a forest, not far from a road. He traveled southwest along it, eventually coming across a village which told him the nearest major settlement was Tumbleton. He left the main road and headed mostly due west, curving north some towards the end. Largely uneventful, aside from a random encounter with some wolves. CR 1 monsters are almost no threat to a level 11 party, no matter their numbers...but a lone warrior, without so much as a ring of regeneration to help him out? That's a different matter. He was pretty low on hit points from fighting Xibahn, and had only gained the dozen from overnight rest; even though the wolves ran pretty quickly, Clerenbald had to drink what few healing potions he had.

And now, at last, he was here. Tumbleton, a city along an unfamiliar river. He traveled days to get there, only to find that it was just a little merchant town, with a building the locals called a castle in the middle. Clerenbald thought it hardly qualified as a small fortress, but it would hardly do to provoke the locals, especially given their reaction to his spiked dwarven plate. _It's like they've never seen an adventurer before._

Granted, not many fighters looked like Clerenbald. So many forgot armor spikes even existed, and few would have a bag of tricks on one hip and a rod of wonder on the other. In fact, he couldn't think of any adventurer of any class who used a rod of wonder; they were just so unpredictable, even more than the rulebooks said if enough strong magic was around. Still, it had saved Cleren more often than he cared to count (and if he sold it, Clothair would probably just buy it right back). Could that be why he was here? Or was it the spell Xibahn was casting? Did it matter?

Surely, Diem wouldn't allow the party to be split for too long. Once at the tavern, Clerenbald decided to ask about his friends first. And Clothair, too.

"Pardon me, barkeep, but I have a few questions."

"Might be I'll answer 'em. Is one've 'em about drinks?" His accent was different than most Clerenbald was familiar with...English, maybe? He hadn't heard an English accent since that half-elven crime boss. Pushover in a fight, but he had good thugs.

"I suppose. What kinds of drinks do you have?"

"Got some wine for a stah. Not the fancy Dounish 'r Arbor kind y'might be used to, but 'sdrink. A half-groat gets you a cuppa ale."

"...And how many stars or half-groats equal a gold piece?"

"Ah...think it's a few thous'n stars t'the dragon..."

Clerenbald sighed. A cup of ale was...four copper pieces? His companions usually didn't have them floating about, preferring to only use gold, but Clerenbald found it convenient to have small change on hand. He even had about a dozen platinum pieces, just in case. He pulled out four coppers from his bag of holding and put them on the bar. "I'm new around here. How much is one of these worth?"

The barkeep's eyes widened when he saw the coin. He lifted it, as if expecting it to be made out of wood or something. "This...we don' see coins like these, roun' 'ere...I'd guess they're...about a star each? Soun's right."

Lovely. He didn't even have a particularly small division of local currency, _and_ the alcohol here was piss-cheap. "I'll take wine. If you have enough coin to make change for the other three, I'd appreciate it."

The barkeep nodded and poured a glass of wine before sifting through a box full of coins. He swapped the four copper pieces for a tiny coin he called a groat, two more called half-groats, a small penny, and a few half-pennies.

"About those questions..."

"Oh, aye. What are they, m'lord?"

"I'm no lord, just an adventurer." _How many lords wear plate armor?_ "First, I'd like to ask about some companions of mine. They might have been seen in the area. First is Thedret Cragaxe. He's a dwarven cleric, which should be enough to identify him."

"Aye, not many of 'em around. Haven' seen er heard o' any dwarfs, save the Imp."

"The Imp?"

"The Lannisser dwarf, I heard 'e got 'mprisoned 'n the Vale."

 _Is it an adventure hook?_ Solo adventures weren't unheard of, but they filled Clerenbald with concern. He still hadn't gotten all of his hit points back from fighting Xibahn, even though he drank all of his healing potions after getting in a fight with some wolves. They were only CR 1, but enough of them would still whittle down his hit points. And if he ran into something he needed magic to solve... _Diem isn't so cruel as to send me on a solo adventure I can't solo. I don't think so, at least._

"Hm. Well, maybe there's news of Maruina Moondancer from Myra?" _City of Light! City of_ Magic! "She's a venerable elven wizard."

"...Not sure...what tha'd be, m'lord."

"A caster. And an elf."

"Sorry, tha's—"

"Caster. She uses magic. Elf. Pointy ears, forest people, kind of dicks?"

"...Ah. Can' say I've seen one o' 'em."

Clerenbald sighed. "Nygell Smith, calls himself Stillshadow. Multiclass, rogue/sorcerer/arcane trickster/shadowdancer."

"Pard'n?"

"He's a magical thief."

"If you're looking f' thieves, maybe check the dungeons a' King's Landin'. They've got more thieves'n we do, m'lord. Plenty headin' for th'Wall."

"The Wall?"

"You've never hear' of the Wall, m'lord?"

"I'm not from around here."

"Wall's not 'round 'ere. It's way up north, past Wintehell. 'Sa mile high and made o' solid ice, with massive cas'les guarded by the Night's Watch. They're a bunch o' criminals who a few lordlings, noble bastards, and other folks no one wants try to get ready for next time the wildlin's or Others attack."

 _Noble bastard? There's an oxymoron._ "Other what?"

"The Others. You've surely heard o' the Long Night?"

"I'm from really far away. Probably a different plane of existence."

"...The Others're folks made o' ice'n darkness. They came eight thousand years ago, tried to wipe out all of us. The Night's Watch formed t'stop 'em if they came again."

"And they haven't?"

"...No, m'lord."

Now, _that_ was an adventure hook. Going to the Wall would require crossing the whole kingdom, probably passing by this Vale, and Clerenbald was willing to bet that Shadowstill or Clothair (or both) would be among the criminals sent there. It still wouldn't hurt to ask...probably.

"The last person I'm looking for is a gnome bard named Clothair." _With some warlock levels, but this guy gets confused easily enough by single-class characters._

"...Gnome?"

"Short person? Big nose? Magical, weird?"

"'Nother dwarf, then?"

"No, dwarves are bigger than gnomes."

The barkeep laughed softly. "I c'n tell ye I've seen nor heard o' no one _that_ short."

This was almost a complete waste of time. "Well...have you heard of any quests?"

"Quests."

"Bandits, warlords, dragons, abandoned dungeons, unexplained deaths or disappearances, rumors?"

"'Salways some bandits, and I've 'eard people saying sailors from King's Landing are spreading tales o' dragons in the D'thraki Sea."

 _Oh, great, a water adventure._

"Ain't gonna find an abandoned dungeon, less the local folk's been good enough to stay out. Deaths...I hear King Robert's died."

"Oh?"

"Aye. They say a boar did 'im in. Some folks're saying it's the 'And that did it, wanting to usurp the throne."

"The...Hand?"

"The King's Hand, Lord Stark. From Winterhell or whatever it's called. Came after ol' Jon Arr'n died. Supposed to be the king's right-hand man. He's gonna be executed, I 'ear. Or 'e is."

"The Hand?"

"King's already dead, isn't he?"

Interesting...head to the Vale, dealing with bandits along the way, rescue the Imp from the Vale, head to Winterhell and kill this Hand, go to the Wall to fight the Others, and at some point sail across the Duthraki Sea and fight sea dragons of some kind. Sounds like a campaign.

"Do you know where I could find a map? Or a temple?"

"Dunno 'bout no maps, but I'm sure you'll find something. There's a sept down by the river."

"Thank you, barkeep." Clerenbald finished his drink (not nearly as bad as you'd expect it to be at a copper to the mug) and left the tavern.

 **—o}====**

Clerenbald couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Not one of you can cast a spell. Not a single spell. Not one."

"N-no, m'lord..."

This had to qualify as a small city, maybe even a large one, which meant it _should_ have at least a couple mid-level clerics and adepts. Naturally, you'd expect such people to be in a temple, and this temple to Thusevin seemed to be the only one in town...but all they could offer was mundane healing. Heal checks? Those were fine for first-level characters, but Clerenbald was missing forty-two hit points and didn't want to waste two or three days resting. Maybe only one, if he agreed to be treated by Thusevin's "maesters". And, of course, no mid-level clerics meant no one who would be willing to join his party until he found Thedret.

Lovely.

"I suppose I have no choice but to stay here, then." One day of full rest while properly treated would fix his hit points right up.

He submitted to their care, impatiently. When they finished treating his wounds, he went to a room provided by the septons (Clerenbald gave them a copper piece for their kindness) and started passing the time with his old fallback: "Zap-the-bag-of-tricks-with-the-rod-of-wonder".

Badger, swarm of butterflies, enlarged badger. Septons entered before Clerenbald could use the rod a third time, demanding to know why there were hundreds of butterflies and why Clerenbald seemed to think the badger was unusually large.


	2. Clothair

Out of all the dungeons he could have been put in, Clothair thought this was the most impressive.

It was guarded by people in red cloaks, lions. Good guys, maybe; lions could go either way, really. The castle they were in was huge, black, and sinister, but it wasn't theirs; he also heard that it looked melty because of some big black dragon melted it with its breath weapon a few centuries ago. Clothair didn't know how much acid damage it took to halfway dissolve a castle, but he sure hoped he didn't find out; even if he made his reflex save, he'd still probably die right there.

Speaking of dying, maybe his brilliant plan wasn't. Well, it was definitely a plan. If his friends were somewhere, they'd be asking around for a gnome bard/warlock, and the first place they'd expect him to be was a prison, in trouble for some kind of mischief. So, he'd do some mischief and get caught, and they'd find him and break him out!

It didn't work.

Did his friends not hear of him yet? Did they not show up nearby, or maybe even show up on the wrong plane? Maybe this was some kind of evil-overlord castle, where he'd have to sit out an adventure; Clothair liked to toe the line when it came to Diem's wrath. Or maybe...maybe they just wouldn't bother. A bard was like the other end of a quarterstaff; most people didn't bother to use it. Cleren didn't like him at all, since he kept stealing his magic items and annoying nobles and calling him Cleren. The others weren't quite as mean, but only Maruina seemed to like him, and more as a stupid little brother than anything else.

 _I'll show them. I'll show Diem, too._ They took some of his gear—his chain shirt, his rod of the python, his ioun stone and portable hole with his gold and a bunch of knickknacks—but left him his winged boots and rings. It was like no one thought of doing a simple _detect magic_ on him! While a +1 deflection bonus to AC wouldn't help that much, invisibility and a few minutes of flight could achieve wonders. And, of course, he had his innate magic. _Blink_ would let him waltz through the bars of his cell, while other spells would let him cause chaos. His invocations weren't much, just _sickening blast_ (not the most dangerous status effect, but a lot of fun at parties) and _summon swarm_ ; that said, the swarm would be pretty dangerous. Escape would probably be easy.

But not yet. The food was pretty okay, and Clothair definitely wasn't going to leave before lunch.

 **;)—[#]=**

A few guards approached. _Lunchtime already?_

"Get moving. Lord Lannister wants to see you."

 _Aw, no lunch._ Clothair could probably make an escape right now—go invisible, take a few seconds for _blink_ , and he's gone. _But I can do that from this Lannster guy's throne room, too, and maybe get some neat loot from it._ Clothair went along, and they brought him through the prison and courtyard, to a tower and up the stairs and into the room where Lord Lannster was.

Lannster wasn't in a throne room so much as an office. It was all dingy, with books and candles and stuff. People said that this Lord Lannster literally shat gold bricks; couldn't someone like that afford a _continual light_ , or at least an everburning torch? Or maybe Diem smote him with economics, just like that time Clothair tried to make a fortune turning ladders into poles. Still, it was a pretty miserly way to run a castle; Lannster was giving him real villain vibes.

No reason not to be polite. "Hi!"

"...Hello. I assume you know who I am?"

"That Lannster guy, right?"

"...I am...Tywin Lannister, yes." He had obviously not dealt with bards before. At least, not the spoony kind. Or spoony rogues—the right rogue could out-spoon most bards. Shame Shadow wasn't that kind of rogue. "I've been told that you attempted a wide variety of misdeeds against my men, using sorcery of some kind."

"I'm not a sorcerer," Clothair said. "I'm a bard. With some warlock levels."

Lannister sighed. "Do you have magical powers?"

A first-level spell slot was worth answering his question, especially when the effects would last the rest of the day. Luckily, Eschew Materials was the first feat he picked up. "Unseen servant!"

"Pardon?"

"Start stacking books."

" _Excuse me?_ "

"Not you, my unseen servant." As they spoke, books began floating off the shelves and seemed to stacking themselves. In reality, it was the work of a little bundle of not-quite-sentient telekinetic energy. The guards or soldiers or whatever they were were shocked to see the books floating, and either that or Clothair's prompt got him to look.

"Interesting. Now tell me, what else can you do?"

Clothair decided the best way would be to demonstrate. "Summon monster _I-I-I_!" Maruina insisted that it was "three," but "I-I-I" seemed to work perfectly fine. Well, usually. This was an exception. Clothair silently and swiftly summoned a swarm of bats. While Lannister and his guards were distracted, he whispered "Detect magic" under his breath. All the bats were getting in the way of clear results, so he didn't mind dismissing all the creatures when Lannister demanded it. Sadly, the results afterwards were the same as before; not a scrap of magic off his own person.

"You can conjure vermin," Lannister noted. "I would be quite disappointed if that was the extent of your power..."

"Nope," Clothair replied. "Let's see. Illusions, got a couple of those. A few enchantments, too, and I can make tons of vermin. About three times that much, if I'm trying hard enough. Oh, and I have a really fun one. I can slip a little sigil into text, and anyone who reads it is trapped in time for a couple of weeks. Like, frozen and stuff. Takes a lot of powdered amber, though."

Clothair was asked to elaborate on his capabilities, and did his best to explain his seventeen spells to Lannister. He also found himself having to explain how magic _works_ , because apparently this old guy had never heard of a spell level or even a spell slot! How weird was that? (And, of course, he was confused by how invocations followed their own rules, but that tripped Clothair up for a little, so he couldn't complain.)

When they finished, Clothair had a pretty obvious question. "Why do you want to know all of this?"

Lannster shifted in his chair. "The seven kingdoms are at war. The north refuses to acknowledge my grandsom, King Joffery Baratheon the—"

"Wait a minute, if you're still alive, why aren't you king?"

Lannister shut his eyes briefly. "The king is the son of my daughter and King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, who sadly died not long ago. The northmen claim that Joffery is a bastard, not King Robert's son at all. The north, river lands, and vale have declared Robb Stark, son of the late Lord Paramount of the North, to be 'king in the north'."

"Wait, how did the last Lord Pariapt in the north die?"

"Lord Eddard Stark was the hand under King Robert—"

"Wait, what?"

"The Hand of the King, a position so named because the man is supposed to be the king's right-hand man. Lord Stark plotted against King Robert, and was executed for his treason."

"By your grandson, I assume?"

"Not by his hand, no. But yes, he ordered Stark killed."

So, according to Lannister, these Starks were traitors, plotting against Robert and trying to make their own kingdom. _But Lannster's giving way strong evil vizier vibes. Just one last question._

"Are you planning to be helping your grandson rule?"

"Of course. He has appointed me Hand, just as I was Hand for King Aerys, before he was called the Mad King."

Well, that settled it. He was lying; he was definitely going to be the evil advisor to Joffery. He had the weird intimidating lions, and the red everything, and the rich-miser feel, and...well, they were in a black castle of doom.

Probably, Jofferey was a good king and Robert wasn't, and wanted to mold his son in his image, but this Lord Edward Starved stopped him. _Lannster's daughter probably had a hand in Edward's death, whether she ordered it herself or just convinced her son that he was a traitor._ The normal thing to do would be to kill Lannister and see if King Joffery could be redeemed and peace be forged between the Starks and the king. That said, Clothair wasn't in a normal mood. He had a chance for a solo adventure, and he could either use it to take out a side enemy in what sounded like a pretty big plot...or he could not. Diem had a plan for the world (it was arguable whether any gods did or not), but adventurers could disrupt those plans. There was little that Clothair enjoyed more.

"Alright. You want me to help you stop the Starveds?"

"Not just the Starks. Robert's brothers have claimed the throne as well, echoing the claim that Joffery and his siblingsare bastards and unable to inherit the throne."

"Not, I'm sure Jeffery is a good kid, but...why would being a bastard stop him from being king?"

Lannister raised an eyebrow. "If he was not a legitimate son of the king _and_ queen, no inheritance laws in the land would allow him to inherit the Iron Throne."

"Yes, but what does that have to do with being a bastard?"

"...A bastard is an illegitimate child."

"You people are _weird_."

Lannster closed his eyes for what seemed like almost a minute, then sighed slowly. "I appreciate your aid. I would appreciate you considering possible uses of your powers to aid the king. We will discuss this further on the morrow."

"Wait, where is—"

"On the morrow means after the sun sets and rises again."

"So, tomorrow?"

Lannster sighed. "Yes. Tomorrow, then."

Clothair was lead to a room in another tower, and shortly thereafter his gear was delivered to him. He thought long and hard about how best to use his position. His party always considered him a fifth wheel that gave them buffs at times for the price of a fifth of their treasure and XP plus whatever problems they blamed on him. Well, he'd show them. This Lord Lannster was definitely the Big Bad, and Clothair could give him the tools to capture them. He'd have enough influence over the old vulture to spare the party's lives...but he wouldn't help them escape and kill Lannster until _after_ they'd agreed to make amends. Admit he was useful, stop complaining about his exploits...maybe even make them elect him party leader.


	3. Maruina

_Author's Note:_ For those who aren't major D&D nerds: "RAW" is an acronym for Rules As Written, usually used to refer to situations where the rulebooks do not explicitly forbid some action or combination of actions which leads to unusual results. Examples: "By RAW, there's no reason to sleep," "By RAW, this feat triples all the damage I deal with this attack." This should help you get a joke I put into this chapter.

* * *

It was considered curious to some that most elves were so strongly disliked, and gray elves even moreso, even by other subraces. They weren't evil, after all; quite the opposite. They also didn't have a natural lack of charisma, as did the dwarves and many evil races. Even stranger, many elves completely lacked these issues. Unfortunately, these analysts—usually elves, frequently gray—failed to account for circumstance penalties. Elves in general were convinced of their inbuilt superiority, that their long list of helpful racial features put them well above other adventuring races. Gray elves did have a somewhat worse case of elven superiority, but the true reason why they were hated so much more than high elves and the like was simple. Aside from a few Dourdenian rebels, every gray elf was a munchkin—one who craves personal prowess, even in ways which fly in the face of logic and the plans of Diem. To aid this cause, the gray elves had long since divined the raw laws of magic and the world itself, the rules which even gods themselves could not change. They recorded these rules in books, which were considered to be useful by some and anathema to others.

In many ways, Maruina Moondancer of Myra (city of light, city of magic) was largely a typical gray elf. A wizard, and venerable to boot. Age gave a slight boost to the mind, in exchange for much of the body's strength. Combined with typical gray elf frailty and weakness, Maruina had minimal strength and an extremely frail constitution. She couldn't easily carry more than a few pounds (her Belt of Many Pouches was in contention for her most treasured possession due to letting her sidestep this) and had met new adventurers who were more capable of resisting blows than she was, but she was almost unmatched in intelligence and, hence, wizardry. It didn't hurt that Maruina convinced her party to attack more than a few evil wizards and even one low-level evil shugenja; naturally, their spellbooks were Maruina's for the taking, and for sale once they'd been copied to her own books, tucked into pockets of her belt.

Unfortunately, fighting through Xibahn's tower and then the mage himself took most of Maruina's spell slots, and anyways she had prepared for fighting fiends and a caster, not random encounters along the road. With only low-level spells left, Maruina would be almost defenseless against an encounter anywhere _near_ her level. She thanked Sehanine Moonbow that she was fairly near a village, and hoped they would have some respect for an adventurer. But...well, it wasn't what she expected.

The villagers certainly respected her...but for her age, not her skill in magic. They gawked at her elven ears, _headband of intellect_ , and _bracers of armor_ , and seemed to have never even heard of adventurers. Luckily, there were some willing to give her a spare bed and some food. She accepted the hospitality, and spent the evening resting and the night (when not trancing) studying her copy of the tomes which detailed the raw laws of the world.

The next morning, her spells were prepared and she was ready to try finding her companions. She considered asking for quests, but determined that even if these villagers had any quests (let alone ones appropriate to her power), it would be foolish to try and do them on her own; a single solid hit could knock her unconscious, and thereafter death was almost certain. As for locating them... _locate creature_ was a useful enough spell, but not one Maruina thought worth the (extremely expensive, mind) ink to pen it in her spellbooks, in no small part because the creature would need to be within several hundred feet. _Clairvoyance_ provided much more detailed information at greater range (and also had the great virtue of being in one of Maruina's spellbooks), but had to be focused on a specific _area_ , not a creature or object. It also had to be a familiar one on the same plane of existence, and a wasted third-level slot quickly confirmed that this village was on an unfamiliar plane.

This did leave one useful divination. _Contact other plane._ It was among her second-highest-level spells, but well worth it. It allowed you to ask a number of questions of an entity from some other plane, and receive one-word answers. They weren't always accurate, but certainly could be useful. Contacting beings with greater chances of accuracy gave higher chances of temporary insanity...as determined by an Intelligence check. Maruina could contact a greater deity with an easy roll, and there was no rule against a process described by the tome of raw laws as "taking 10".

So, Maruina contacted the great outer plane where the greater deity Fharlanghn, the patron of travelers and roads, resided. Her first question...

"Fharlanghn, where is Clerenbald, called Frostblight, slayer of the white dragon Caydranth the Cold, who destroyed the would-be frost giant empire, and nemesis of Xibahn?"

No response. That wasn't supposed to be possible. _True answer, don't know, lie, random answer...none of these are silence! Even "don't know" says you have to be told!_

"Fharlanghn, _where the Baator is Clerenbald?_ "

No response. Three more questions.

"Fharlanghn...is something preventing my questions from reaching you?"

No response, but that was an answer of its own.

"No...no...that's impossible." The _contact other plane_ spell was supposed to reach across the very planes of existence; nothing short of direct divine intervention should have stopped her! Unless...unless there was, somehow, no Astral Plane connection to the Great Wheel. If this was some world beyond the Wheel, deep in the Far Realm...such things were far from likely, but not impossible.

Perhaps she could push her luck...the raw description of the spell didn't explicitly state you had to ask the same entity your questions, or even one on the same plane. _Could I ask the locals about the local powers and their planes?_ But even as Maruina thought this, she felt the power of the spell slipping from her. Two questions wasted...not that it mattered, since they could not be answered. Perhaps another wizard could have continued concentrating, asked about more local powers, and asked the other two questions, but Maruina had incurred Diem's wrath far too often for such mercy.

Indeed, Diem seemed to have more wrath in store, though light; a few quick Bluff checks dispelled their concerns. That said, it was the only _contact other plane_ spell she prepared, so there was little she could do. She did ask the caretakers of a shrine to the local gods (seven with incredibly uncreative names) about the local cosmology, learning more about these seven gods and a bit about others. (Maruina didn't waste ranks in Knowledge (religion), but something seemed off about these gods...) With this knowledge, she planned the next day's _contact other plane_. She used her magic to help out around town, with cantrips like _prestidigitation, mage hand,_ and _cook_ (that _ofuda_ was likely the best loot she ever had) made a mockery of common household issues; with this, she earned fear, awe, and most importantly, room and board.

The night passed, the morning began. After preparing spells, she sneaked out into the fields before casting _contact other plane_ , this time aiming for the heaven where the Seven were supposed to reside.

"Warrior, where is Clerenbald, called Frostblight, slayer of the white dragon Caydranth the Cold, who destroyed the would-be frost giant empire, and nemesis of Xibahn?"

The answer was slow in coming, and the difficulty of the Intelligence check surprised Maruina. Still, she passed, and the answer came.

"South."

Perhaps that was not the best way to word that question. "Warrior, what city is this Clerenbald nearest to?"

The answer came somewhat quicker this time. "Duskendale."

 _Possibly._ "Warrior, what city is Clerenbald nearest to?"

"Fawnton."

 _My luck. Now to learn which is the lie._ "Warrior, what city is Clerenbald nearest to?"

"Fawnton."

 _One more question, I suppose..._ "Stranger, what is the name of the greatest threat to my life in the coming weeks?"

The answer was slower, but faster than for the first question. "Solitude."

The spell ended, Maruina returned to the village, pondering this last answer. It could be a lie or a random answer...but if the Stranger was a greater god, there was an 88% chance that it was true, and that was too high to ignore. _Solitude._ The fact that they were so slow to answer was...unusual, especially as they were quicker after that first inquiry. Were there no wizards who contacted them? And surely even the _contact other plane_ spells of ten thousand paranoid gray elves would be drowned out by the prayers of the gods' own clerics? Yet it was almost as if they didn't _expect_ any kind of contact! Problematic... _A matter for tomorrow's_ contact other plane _, perhaps. But first..."Solitude?" That can only mean one thing, if it's true. I'm a squishy mage, I need meatshields. This puny village won't have any._

When the town awoke, Maruina began asking various people about the way to nearby towns and checking that none had any adventurer potential as she squandered her magic on purifying food and water, fixing tools, and cleaning anything she came across. There were two good choices, Maidenpool to the southeast and the Antlers (or Antlers, it was confusing) to the south. Antlers was roughly on the way to Fawnton, but Maidenpool was a port. Meanwhile, the Antlers was a castle and hence more likely to have high-level characters wandering about and patrons giving quests, while Maidenpool was a town, with more shops and more of its potential adventurers _available_. Maruina decided to leave the decision to the gods.

Another night, another _contact other plane_ spell. Maruina decided to cast this one from within the little shrine; it was always a good idea to pay the gods courtesies when possible, especially ones which didn't like being called upon. "Warrior, would I be more likely to find adventurers to join my party in Maidenpool than the Antlers?"

After a long, worrisome pause, the reply came. "Yes."

"Would I be more likely to find adventurers to join my party in Antlers than Maidenpool?"

Faster this time. "No."

 _Confirmation._ "Smith, what city is Thedret Cragaxe, healer, adventurer, and cleric of Moradin, nearest to?"

"Duskendale."

 _I think that's south. Good, maybe he'll find Clerenbald._ "Smith, what city is Thedret Cragaxe the killjoy nearest to?"

"Duskendale."

 _Confirmation._ "Smith...will I see a magic item shop in the next few moons?"

"No."

 _Perhaps I should consider taking an item creation feat next level. Might even be worth delaying my prestige class advancement to get a bonus one. Probably not...although I might consider cross-classing to artificer. Stunts my spell progression, but...well, it stunts my spell progression, so probably not. At least, not without a significant reconsideration of my current goals._

With that, Maruina began her third and (thank Sehanine) final day prostituting her magic to a bunch of first-level human commoners. She spread word that she was planning to head to Maidenpool and got a few people who were planning to go to Maidenpool soon and decided to accompany her. _Maybe needing to protect them will boost the EL of any random encounters enough that I get XP for them. If not, hey, they're free porters._


	4. Thedret

Thedret Cragaxe was a loyal cleric of Moradin, but he certainly believed in other gods. What fool wouldn't? A few Sigilians claimed that the gods weren't truly divine, that the great leap from mere outsiders or great adventurers to _gods_ was less of an unparalleled leap and more of one last step down a long path, but even they admitted the existence of the dozens of great gods and hundreds of lesser ones. Thedret had met a few claiming that theirs was the only god, that all others were usurpers or deceivers or aspects of this one god. Cultists, every last one of them, most deceived by some greater fiend hoping to come to the mortal plane or become a fiendish noble. To any true cleric, denying the existence of another god would be like living atop a mountain and denying the existence of the neighboring peaks.

Thus, Thedret was understandably concerned by the inhabitants of the rocky isle he found himself on. He had been fished out of the ocean by a passing fishing boat, then brought to a castle which seemed to be largely made out of stone dragons. The inhabitants of the castle said it was called Dragonstone (clearly someone wasn't feeling creative when they made it), and was made by the magic of an empire called the Valyrians. Said inhabitants were divided into two groups. One worshiped seven gods (unusual, but not unheard of outside of divine spellcasters and the like), some newcomers and converts worshiped a god of fire known as R'hllor the Red God. Both groups were aware of other gods worshiped elsewhere (such as the Drowned God, the Great Shepherd, and a pantheon of lesser nature deities called the Old Gods), but thought they were all false.

In case this alone was not sufficient concern, there was a suspicious lack of divine spellcasters. The priests of the seven gods collectively known as the Seven (Thedret was starting to wonder if the gods of this land were required to forego all creativity to ascend) didn't seem to have levels of cleric, adept, or even some obscure class; he initially thought their maesters were those "cloistered clerics" he'd heard of, but they too lacked any form of spellcasting. The same couldn't be said of the head of R'hllor's faithful, a woman named Melisandre.

While Melisandre didn't flaunt her power, everyone whispered of it. She and other Red Priests had a few spells up their sleeves—various fire-related spells (of course), divining the future through flames, illusions, and even bringing people back from the dead. Thedret couldn't help but notice some conspicuous holes, ranging from _purify food and drink_ to buff spells to...well, any healing spell short of _raise dead_. Also spell slots. In addition, there were a few other abilities Melisandre was said to possess which concerned Thedret. Immunity (or at least resistance) to fire, immunity to poison, youth. These weren't associated with clerics. All were associated with fiends, however...and if Thedret (admittedly unfamiliar with non-core classes) wasn't mistaken, they could be acquired by warlocks. And warlocks got their fell powers by making pacts with demons.

With such in mind, Thedret began healing those at Dragonstone. The first full day, he kept trying to contact Moradin for his divine power and failed; he had to expend nearly all of the charge in his _staff of healing_ to do all he wanted to. (By the raw-magic the gray elves studied and their thrice-cursed "calculations," staves were widely considered to be so inefficient as to be almost useless. However, one who had gathered the favor of Diem could frequently find ways to recharge one, if some charge remained.) The next morning, he gave in. A cleric need not draw power from a god; he could instead do so from a concept or ideal. Feeling slightly dirty, he "converted" from a cleric of Moradin to a cleric of Thedret's memory of Moradin, and his teachings. Having done so, he could prepare spells, thank Moradin. _Or his memory._

With these spells, he began performing greater miracles than he could with his staff alone. This was proving to be quite effective. This day wasn't half done, and he already had several who wished to learn of Moradin and, perhaps, convert. Most were from the faith of the Seven, who feared R'hllor near as much as they feared the Red Priests' powers, but two were of R'hllor. With these, Thedret hoped to not only spread knowledge of Moradin and perhaps train new clerics, but also to spread the knowledge that all gods were real (even if some were so vile as to not deserve respect, let alone worship.)

Melisandre did not take this as poorly as Thedret had expected. She apparently considered Moradin to be an amusing but harmless, even beneficial, fantasy, calling Thedret's spells "unusual magic, but wholesome." ( _"Wholesome," not "holy"._ ) She also seemed to enjoy debating theology with Thedret; Thedret always felt at a loss. Many subjects they discussed, of the existence and absence of gods, were not ones Thedret or his teachers ever considered; that said, comparing the philosophies of R'hllor and various gods from Thedret's world was something Thedret enjoyed even more than Melisandre, not in the least because it allowed him a chance to vocally compare R'hllor to demons and other dark powers without risking the anger of his faithful. Which was absolutely vital to Thedret's continued survival, for one simple, terrifying reason.

King Stannis, lord of Dragonstone and rightful king of the Iron Throne, was not only a follower of this Red God, but R'hllor's promised prince, Azor Ahai reborn.

Thedret had as of yet heard little of this Azor Ahai, but he was apparently supposed to bring glory to R'hllor, and one of the biggest stories about him was the time he killed his wife for a magic sword. _Sounds like the very darkest kind of munchkin to me._ Thedret held little respect for Maruina or her city of light, city of magic, but he couldn't imagine the grey elf killing a party member or even family member just for a magic item, and Myra (city of light, city of magic) had _firm_ laws against human sacrifice. (Some of the city's major functions were powered by the blood and souls of those who broke them. Maruina said the irony gave the spells extra fortitude.) If this Stannis Baratheon was such a man in new flesh...

Well, Thedret knew he had two options. If he could, he'd convert Stannis to Moradin, convince him to achieve his goals through good (ideally Lawful Good) means, rather than the evil (likely Chaotic Evil) means of Melisandre the suspected warlock, R'hllor the suspected demon, and human sacrifice. The queen was still alive, as was their daughter, so perhaps he wasn't too late. If not...

Turning from such dark thoughts and half-plans, Thedret pondered what the locals had said about dwarves. There were a few, they said, but born to human parents. In fact, the idea of classifying dwarves as separate from humans seemed to amuse many of the Dragonstone nobles, as though this miracle man having such quaint views was the height of hilarity. _Or are they just relieved to know that I'm just a mortal humanoid like them, and not some terrifying outsider? Or is it something else?_

In many ways, Thedret was a simple man. He didn't try to optimize his build, focusing on healing and proper dwarvish deeds above the most painfully efficient use of his spell slots. He didn't fret over the best magic items for any situation, preferring to focus on the basics. He hadn't even looked at the raw rulebooks the grey elves wrote, mostly on principle. Beyond this, he didn't worry about too much except helping the weak and stopping evil. He didn't even worry too much about deciding which evils to stop; Clerenbald's mind and heart, the elf's obscene intelligence, even Stillshadow's cold cunning, all of these were _designed_ for questions like those. Thedret...well, there were days he wondered if he was truly cut out for adventuring.

The grey elves divided all mortals into two groups. One was the born adventurers; the others they called Enpisces, who—by the grey elves' logic—had no purpose but to serve adventurers. Maruina had often accused Thedret of being an Enpisce; he replied that he'd rather be an Enpisce than a munchkin. Thedret wondered if this was still the case. A munchkin might know what to do, better than a glorified crate of healing potions...

 _No. Think. What do you know?_

The Red Priests of R'hllor denied the existence of other gods...but then, so did the septons and maesters of the Seven. Moradin knew ( _Or does he? My prayers don't seem to reach him, could his divine sight be blocked?_ ) what the followers of the Old Gods and the Drowned God and the like believed...

Melisandre and likely other Red Priests had class features more in line with warlocks than clerics ( _Though they could just be some non-core class. Or maybe some obscure prestige class?_ )

These priests claimed that there was one unified ( _Hah!_ ) evil called the Great Other, combating the good of their Red God, who Azor Ahai—Stannis Baratheon—was supposed to destroy.

Melisandre wanted to convert as many people on Dragonstone as she could, but didn't seem concerned by Thedret teaching others of Moradin, trying to convert them. ( _Surely she can see that? I'm not exactly a master of subterfuge._ )

In fact...Melisandre seemed very, very friendly towards Thedret. ( _Concerning...could she be trying to corrupt me? Fallen paladin blackguards gain all sorts of powers. Or I might be a sacrifice. Or I might be paranoid, jumping at every shadow. I miss Clerenbald._ )

The king's elder brother, Robert Baratheon, who took the throne from the Mad King Aerys Targaryen, had recently died. Some suspected his wife, Cersei from House Lannister, of being involved; Stannis and others (including the king's right-hand man... _Edward Starve, was it?_ ) claimed that Cersei's three children were fathered not by Robert, but by the queen's twin brother Jaime, a member of the king's guard who killed the Mad King. ( _He killed one king, why not another?_ ) Obviously, if these children weren't Robert's, the next in line was...Stannis Baratheon, Azor Ahai.

Despite this, Stannis's _younger_ brother, Renly ( _Too many names..._ ) had claimed the throne, with no greater justification that he thought he'd be a better king than Stannis. ( _I should look into this..._ ) He had far more men coming to his cause than King Stannis, which angered him to no end.

The eldest possible incest-bastard, Geoffery Baratheon (Lannister?), had taken the throne, and much of the realm followed him. It was likely the North wouldn't, since he ordered their lord (the king's right-hand man) executed. The riverlands might follow, since he was their lord's son-in-law; the Vale might as well, since it was currently ruled in fact by one of the river lord's daughters.

Thedret sighed. _I miss Clerenbald. I miss Stillshadow. I miss the elf_ — _Baator, I even miss damn Clothair! How am I supposed to piece this together?_

From what he heard, the evidence that Geoffery and his siblings were bastards was strong. They probably were. Geoffery was definitely a terrible king...but what of his brother and sister? Stannis seemed competent but hard and cold; Renly sounded warmer and more charismatic, though possibly less skilled. _If I could reconcile the brothers...that would be best, I think._ As for the others, the northmen and rivermen and valemen, anyone else who interfered, he couldn't guess. But he did know one thing.

 _The prophecies. The Great Other is coming, doubtless. Azor Ahai is reborn, doubtless. They will fight, doubtless. And if the Long Night was the Great Other's doing..._

Thedret didn't know whose head the crown should sit on, but he knew that the king needed to unite the world. If he didn't, the Great Other would kill them all. And there was a terrifying possibility that the only king who even suspected the danger was king over nothing but a few rocks in the sea.

 _Where are you, Cleren?_


	5. Xibahn

Xibahn the White was not amused. He still remembered being forced to swim to shore. Yes! Xibahn was dumped into the middle of the ocean (he was barely a mile offshore, and in a bay), in the middle of nowhere (he was within a day's hard walk of the largest city on the continent, for one such as himself with a large step between himself and the laws of science), as far as could be from the hated Clerenbald Frostbane (he was equally lost to the south) and his plans of world domination (there were several worlds more distant). Luckily, after a humiliating (very true) swim to shore, he spotted smoke in the air. Where there's smoke, there's fire, and where there's fire, there is very often civilization. And indeed, there was. By nightfall, he reached a village, little more than a wide part of the road with a loose cluster of buildings and a castle nearby _._ While he had lost many hit points and spent many spells fighting Clerenbald's minions, his remaining spells were more than sufficient to crush what little resistance he faced, especially since the townspeople were already half-convinced he was some avatar of destruction from his appearance and a convenient red comet.

His appearance didn't hurt. Xibahn was a tiefling, one with blatant fiendish heritage. Xibahn's great-great-grandmother was a succubus, unsurprisingly one of the most common fiends for tieflings to trace their ancestry to. Yet that was not the only magical blood which flowed in Xibahn's veins. The man that succubus lay with was a tribal grandchild of Caydranth the Cold, the dread white dragon. (Xibahn also had a few drops of eladrin blood from his half-elven mother, but he hid _that_ heritage.)

This diverse heritage made its mark on Xibahn. Most of his skin was tinged a deep, angry red. Down his spine, up the front of his legs, along the outside of his arms, and on his forehead, Xibahn's red skin fades to white scales. From the forehead sprouted a crest like that of his draconic ancestors, while small claws replaced his fingernails. His nose was long and thick, his eyes changed tints with his emotions (the only visible sign of his celestial heritage), and his ears were wide and pointed, almost as much as his teeth. Under his robes were two grey vestigial wings and a thin tail.

The union of the draconic barbarian and demoness was Xibahn's great-grandfather, a warlord in his day. His daughter tried to throw aside her heritage, only to get drawn into the service of a diabolical cult. That woman's seventh son was a drunken sot, a disgrace to his great ancestors; his seventh son was raised in the brothel he was born in, until Caydranth came and discovered those of his blood in the town (many of whom came from the loins of said sot). Xibahn and other relatives were taken in by Caydranth, and tested; only Caydranth himself was deemed powerful enough to study sorcery at the side of the great dragon.

And then that damn Clerenbald, Frostbane, slew Caydranth the Great!

The father he never had, the friend he always wanted, the mentor he desperately needed. Gone. Xibahn was performing an errand, terrifying a count into giving up the tribute he owed. He returned to find Caydranth's icy lair full of corpses and empty of valuables. It didn't take long to discover who did the deed; it was Clerenbald, who defeated the winged frost giant emperor Lockead, the Cult of Demogorgon, the dark shugenja Li Waters from the east. Him and his allies—Maruina Moondancer the Munchkin of Myra (city of damned _light_ , city of damned _magic_ ), slayer of wizards and master duelist; Thedret Cragaxe the Kind, holy cleric of Moradin, bringer of healing and miracles; Nygell Smith, known as Stillshadow, the silent shadow-man of many talents; and Clothair. _I'd say 'damn them all to Hell,' but I wouldn't wish them on the Baatezu._

Thus, he set a trap for them. Adventurers like him were drawn to evil warlords like moths to a flame; Clerenbald would doubtless want to finish what he started; and Maruina doubtless salivated at the thought of slaying yet another powerful wizard. (All the better that the great and arrogant wizard would learn that sorcerers could be as great and terrible as they.) The others always followed them. The bait was perfect; all he had to do was plot to take over the world. And if the trap failed, he'd have the world!

Strange how these plans never seem to work out. Somehow, the magics of the various mid-level adventurers and the monsters Xibahn had studied mixed to bring them...here. _It was Clerenbald's damn_ rod of wonder _, I'd bet my life on it._ But now, it didn't matter. _I'll get my revenge. For now, I'll content myself preparing for conquest._

It took quite some work, to be sure. Despite Xibahn's impressive collection of _knowstones_ , he was still limited in the variety of spells he could cast; despite his four _pearls of power_ , he still had a limited number of spell slots. Despite these limitations, Xibahn managed to make a decent abode the first day, with _wall of stone_ , _wall of iron_ , and some _shape stone_ spells (Xibahn intended to use a bound earth elemental or a few, but something interfered with his spell). He also put in time oppressing the locals; forcing them to work longer hours, whipping them if they didn't work hard enough, laughing evilly, that kind of thing. The lord and his wife were sadly at the capital, but he had a ward at the castle, and Xibahn kept finding denigrating tasks for him to do.

Thus the day passed. Unfortunately, despite regularly bringing the villagers together to count them, one girl managed to escape while Xibahn was remodeling. He chased her down, but upon his return at least a dozen more were missing. Sadly, any nearby cities would probably learn of Xibahn's presence before he intended. _Shame. I sure hope I can figure out the whole can't-call-or-summon-anything thing. I wonder if_ contact other plane _would help._ Xibahn considered learning that a few levels prior, but as it stood his only divination which might be of use was _legend lore_ , which was one of his highest-leveled spells. Probably wouldn't...especially since the spell could, perhaps, bring him to Clerenbald.

But back to today. Xibahn burned all but one of his high-level spell slots on fifteen _walls of stone_ and turned them into a proper wall around his new fortress with several _stone shapes_. With the last high-level spell slot, he instantly summoned two small golden lions, a _figurine of wondrous power_. Luckily, it was on this same plane of existence; whatever brought him here probably dumped most of the contents of Xibahn's throne room over the area. _Almost certainly including Clerenbald and his minions._ Xibahn wanted to use _legend lore_ to learn about Clerenbald's recent deeds, but that spell would require hundreds of gold pieces' worth of incense and 1d10 days; Xibahn had neither.

Instead, once he had his lions and walls, he began interrogating people for some "barbarian's divination". Well, first he ordered the able-bodied merchants, nobles, priests, and whatnot to begin making gates for the walls, but _then_ he began interrogations. And what news he learned! One king died, and four others had risen—the old king's eldest son, his two younger brothers, and some random guy who only wanted half the realm.

 _Perhaps I could make it a war of five kings?_ Certainly, a kingdom in turmoil was the perfect target...but Xibahn was far from top condition. No minions, and plenty of his higher-level spells were conjurations, which didn't seem to be working. And the locals were far from helpful in leading him to possible new planes he could summon minions from. There were seven hells, not nine, which seemed to be more places to punish the damned than abodes of anything particularly useful (proved by Xibahn failing to summon a fiendish medium wolf from it). There was supposed to be a heaven or seven, too, but details were even sketchier. M _aybe I shouldn't have sent everyone who might have ranks in Knowledge (the planes) out to make gates?_ Ah well. Xibahn had a _plane shift_ knowstone; it should be able to help him scope out the planes here (Xibahn having long since decided that he wasn't in the Great Wheel anymore), once he had a couple spare spell slots and ideally several days to spare.

But for now, it was enough to be prepare for the inevitable retribution of the locals. He was just down the road from the capital.


	6. Merla

A familiar doesn't have it easy. Usually, you're forgotten. Sometimes, you're forced to risk your life for causes you don't care about or even entirely understand (though you might if your master let you out of the pocket she stuffed you in when not needed). During the battle with Xibahn, Merla got to experience both. During the third round, he was sent to drop a quickened _protection from evil_ on Clothair after Xibahn dispelled the first one. Not being protected himself, Merla almost got killed by an attack of opportunity just to get there. Both before and after that spell, he was forgotten by adventurer and villain alike.

Then a bunch of magic started happening at once, and there was a hole ripped in reality, and Merla just fell into it. And she couldn't be happier! As long as Maruina Moondancer the Moronic didn't call him back somehow, he could just be...free. He was a raven as smart as a typical human and with ten times the common sense of most. Sure, no opposable thumbs, but who needs thumbs when you can fly? As long as separation from the damn munchkin didn't make him lose his familiar benefits, Merla was perfectly glad never to adventure with _them_ again. Looking around, there was a solid chance that would happen. Merla was near the southern edge of a big lake with a river going south, and a castle on the river. None of it looked remotely familiar, and his empathetic link with Maruina was silent, meaning she was more than a mile from her familiar.

"I wonder if I could keep my current statistics and start getting class levels?" Merla said in Common, for raven familiars are granted the supernatural ability to speak one language. Maurina apparently decided that having an easy messenger was worth whatever alternate class feature she could have fit into her build instead of enslaving a spirit in the body of an animal to do her bidding. "I'd be a decent druid. Especially once I could wild shape. I might not even need Natural Spell, if I stuck to birds."

With thoughts of turning into a giant eagle and ravaging her enemies (forgetting, of course, that giant eagles are magical beasts rather than animals), Merla took off, looking for local birds. Familiars of mid-level wizards and sorcerers can speak with similar creatures, and for Merla that meant anything with feathers, beaks, and wings. He caught a glimpse of another raven, flying past the castle, and decided that the best bird to talk with was as similar to him as possible.

Merla took off after the raven. "Caw! Caw, caw caw caw caw." _Hey, you! Wait up, I want to talk with you._

The other raven glanced over, surprised at the speech. Well, technically the communication was through telepathic means enabled by the caws, but if anything that made it more surprising.

"Caw caw?" _Who are you?_

"Caw caw. Caw caw caw?" _A wizard's familiar. Where are you going?_

"Caw." _Home._

"Caw caw?" _Where is home?_

"Caw caw. Caw caw caw. Caw caw caw caw caw." _A big castle on the big river. The humans there give me the best food. But they keep caging me up and sending me to other towns and castles._

"Caw caw?" _Their food isn't as good?_

"Caw, caw caw? Caw. Caw caw." _If it was, would I go back? Well, probably. I was born there._

"Caw caw?" _What's that on your leg?_

"Caw caw caw caw." _They always tie these to me when they let me fly home._

"Caw caw, caw." _You're being used, brother._

"Caw?" _Huh?_

"Caw caw caw caw caw." _They're using you to bring these messages between the places they drag you and your home._

"Caw. Caw, caw caw, caw. Caw caw caw." _Oh. Well, as long as they feed me, I'm good. I've seen how wild crows have to live._

"Caw, caw caw." _That's quite mature, for a normal bird._

"Caw caw?" _And you're not?_

"Caw caw." _I'm talking to you._

"Caw." _Good point._

The ravens flew through the day and part of the night, before arriving at the normal(ish) raven's home. It was a triangular castle, built on the banks of two great rivers. On the third side was a wide moat, which could easily be filled with water. Once that happened, the castle would be surrounded on three sides by rushing water; anyone trying to take the castle without significant magical support would need to wade or row across the river while the castle's archers and spellcasters rained death on them. And once they got to the castle-island, they'd need to get in somehow—difficult, since the walls went right up to the rivers. Aside from some fortresses built into mountains, it was the most defensible castle Merla had ever seen. Inside was a large, triangular keep; a few towers; a grove with a weird white-barked red-leaved tree in the middle; and an impressive garden with a seven-sided church of some kind in the middle.

"Probably worship Obad-Hai or something," Merla muttered.

"Caw?" _What was that?_

"Caw." _Nothing important._

The unnamed raven lead the named one to one of the towers. The room at the top was full of ravens in various cages; the floor was covered with straw.

"Caw?" _What now?_

"Caw, caw caw caw caw caw." _In the morning, someone's coming up to feed us and get this message off my leg._

"Caw caw?" _What do we do until then?_

"Caw?" _Sleep?_

 _He has a point,_ Merla silently conceded. So he found a perch to sleep on and slept. It was chillier and windier than the extradimensional belt pocket he was used to, but less cramped.

The next morning, Merla was awakened by the other ravens squawking. It didn't take long to figure out why; an old man wearing brown robes and a chain around his neck was coming into the room, carrying a bag of...

"Corn?" Merla asked, flying over to the man.

The old man muttered something and reached for Merla's leg.

"Hey, geezer, hands off. I'm not one of your dumb messenger ravens."

"Caw?" asked the raven who lead Merla to the castle. _Pardon?_

"Caw caw caw." _I didn't mean you._ "You know, most people are more surprised by me talking. I don't suppose you know a mage?"

Unknown to Merla, the man in question had met a few talking ravens. While studying at the Citadel, he took his turns feeding and caring for the ravens; a few of them learned to speak a word or a few, usually ones which could lead to them being fed more or sooner. Most were limited to one word, and not one managed to put together the crudest phrase, let alone a complete sentence. Thus, at this point, the old man was displaying about the same level of surprise as Merla expected.

"Guess not. Hey, geezer, got a name?"

"Vy-Vyman. Master Vyman. ...And you?"

"I'm Mer...le." Merla didn't want to be stuck with a feminine name given to him by a mage who didn't bother asking anyone with ranks in Knowledge (nature) what gender her familiar was. "Merle. Say, I don't suppose I'll have to stay up here with these cretins?"

"Caw!"

"I don't think I'm making many friends." _Shame familiars don't get bonus Charisma._

"Um—"

"Say, what's this place called? I'm not from around here, I got sent here by some teleportation spell or three going wrong."

Vyman focused on the part of that statement he understood. "We're—in Riverrun."

"Riverrun? Creative name. What's this tower called, Raven Tower?"

"Ah, no. This is the master's tower. Could you leave me alone a moment, to feed the other ravens?"

"Sure. But first, can I have some corn? It's my favorite."

Vyman fed the ravens, checked for messages, and did other boring stuff. When he was finished, he brought Merla (Mer _le_ ) downstairs and tapped the shoulder of the first servant-looking guy he came across.

"Pardon me for a moment, I just want to make sure I'm..." Vyman hesitated, not sure how to finish his sentence.

"Why did you bring a crow downstairs?" the servant asked.

"Excuse me? I'm a _raven_ , you ignorant Commoner."

The servant gaped. "So," Vyman said, "you hear it, too."

"Well, duh. I'm _talking_ , how could he not hear me? ... _Oh_ , you meant I'm actually talking, not just you going crazy. Gotcha."

Merle (the name just _fit_ ) was brought to a different room, one that looked like an unused (or at least empty) office of some kind. He found a book, brought it to a table (his single point of Strength was entirely sufficient to lift a typical book), and began reading about three sibling-adventurers with draconic cohorts who conquered most of a continent. It was interesting (and helped Merle learn some of the local history), but soon enough someone came for him.

He was brought before their king, King Robb Stark, who Merla thought was King of the North-End Trident until he asked for clarification. Turns out, he was king of the North _and_ king of the Trident. Weird. Anyways, the king wanted to see if Merle was really an intelligent, talking raven ("You don't have many wizards around here, do you?" Vyman's silence answered the question).

The king met in a place called the God's Wood, which in the uncreative naming traditions of Riverrun and presumably the North, was a wood where their gods lived. He was surprisingly young, probably not even...whatever a hundred fifty was in human years. He had long reddy-brown (auburn?) hair and a pointy crown made of iron and some coppery metal. He was mostly clean-shaved, but not so much that Merle got the impression that he really _wanted_ to be. _Probably either an adolescent rebel or a tamed wild-man...and I'm guessing the latter, if only because of the wolf._ It was a fairly big wolf, but lanky. Maruina didn't have any ranks in Knowledge (nature), but that wasn't any normal wolf. It was gray, not white or black, so it couldn't be a winter wolf or a worg, which left...well...dire wolf, maybe werewolf or some obscure wolf-monster, but probably a dire wolf.

The God's Wood, the temple in the gardens, the rivers, and what looked like a _dire wolf_ animal companion...the North-and-Trident was ruled by a druid-king. _Or maybe a ranger-king, but even druids don't get dire wolves until...sixth or seventh level? That means rangers wouldn't get them until, like, twelfth or fourteenth level, and I don't see Robb having enough time to level up a dozen times AND rule a kingdom, especially in a more combat-heavy class like ranger._ Even a seventh-level druid was capable of casting third-level spells, meaning King Robb could probably call down lightning bolts, reshape the stones of Riverrun, call elementals and lions out of thin air, and put out fires. Even if he was just a twelfth-level ranger, he'd still have...also third-level spells, like _water walk_ and _command plants_ and _darkvision_? And Merle wouldn't be surprised if he had more levels than that...

The few times Merla wasn't stuffed into an extradimensional pocket when the party met with royalty, he paid enough attention to learn a bit about etiquette (possibly more than some of the party). It wasn't much, but he hoped it would be enough. "Hello, um, your majesty. It's nice to meet you?" Merle turned to Vyman and whispered, "Am I doing this right? I'm not from around here."

"Your grace," he said, "I'd like to introduce you to Merle, the raven. As you can see, he does, indeed, speak."

"I see," King Robb said. "And is he...intelligent?"

"I'm no gray elf wizard, but I'm as clever as most people. Smarter than most half-orcs or fighters."

"...I see. Would you be able to remember messages which we told you, and find people on the move?"

"Oh, I can see where this is going. Your ma—grace. Master Vyman, I'm guessing your sycophants only know how to fly to one castle?"

"The other ravens?" Merle nodded. "You are correct."

"And you want me to be able to fly messages to a bunch of places. Probably places that your normal ravens can't reach."

"You are correct," Vyman said.

"Well...Your grace, I'm...I was a familiar. You don't seem to have many wizards, so you probably don't know what that means, but...I had to do whatever my wizard wanted. I'll help you, but I want to be free. I'd like to be an adventurer, and I'd even be willing to try message-running adventures, but...I want to choose who I'm working for, and why. I don't want to look back in a few months and discover that I've been helping an evil emperor set up an evil empire of evil."

King Rob started to frown, but then started nodding slightly before the end. "You wish to know who you're fighting for, and why they are fighting. I don't blame you. It started when King Robert died."

"Was he your father?" _King Robert I, King Robert "Rob" II, makes sense._

"No."

"Oh. Sorry. I'm not from around here. Not sure how far. Um—" King Rob looked annoyed. _Maybe I should try to learn etiquette from a group of people that doesn't include Clothair, Maruina, and Stillshadow?_ "Sorry. I'll shut up and listen."

King Rob paused, then continued. "My father was Lord Eddard Stark, king Robert's hand. King Robert declared that on his death, Lord Stark would be Protector of the Realm; the queen refused. My father said that Prince Jofree was the bastard child of the queen and the Kingslayer, which the queen also disagreed with. She had him executed. King Robert's brothers rose in rebellion, each claiming the throne, and both of them as well as the Lannisters requested the aid of the North."

"You didn't help any of them," Merle said, the pieces clicking into place. "You declared yourself king."

King Rob nodded. "The north is not the south. Our ways are different, our lords are different, our very gods are different. We bent the knee to the dragons, my father willingly served Robert, but not one man in the North will follow the Lannisters."

Merle waited for a respectful silence to pass before saying, "Let's see if I understand this. The old king, Robert, was killed. Your father says his son is actually the son of his killer."

"The Kingslayer slew a different king," Vyman said.

"Oh. Your father says the king's son is someone else's, so he can't be the king. The queen has him executed, and—obviously—you don't like this. The old king's brothers fight the new king because he's not the old king's son, and instead of joining the new king or the old king's brothers, you took a third option. Freedom for your people."

King Rob nodded.

"I'm in. What do you need me to do first?"

"At the moment? Nothing."

Vyman cleared his throat. "It occurs to me...a sufficiently intelligent raven can be used to do more than carry messages."

"I like the sound of that."

"He could become a useful scout."

"Oh, I _definitely_ like the sound of that." Scouting meant danger, and danger meant XP. XP meant...well, it just might let Merle achieve his goals.

* * *

That night, Merle flew to the God's Wood. He had been given a few shelves in a closet on the outside of the Master's Tower, one with a small window. It wasn't as impressive a room as even the servants had, but it was luxurious to a small animal used to being stuffed in an extradimensional pocket for days at a time, especially compared to a rookery full of dumb normal ravens. Even so, Merla didn't want to sleep. There was something else he felt he had to do.

Most birds would perch in the branches of trees, and Merle himself usually did. But this white tree, this...heart tree, did they call it? Perching on it seemed sacrilegious. Sacrilege is the last thing Merle would want to do before asking a god for a favor.

"Um...Old Gods, I don't know your name...I'm new here, sorry. I don't know how to pray to you. I don't know if you really _have_ prayers. Probably more druids than clerics, and it sounds like Seven in the south is a lot more formal. Um." Merle hopped slightly closer to the tree. "I...you might be able to tell, but I'm a familiar. A spirit in an animal's body, tied to the will of a wizard. I'm bonded to the wizard, and without that bond, I'm...well, a spirit, and an animal.

"I don't want that, but I don't want the bond either. I want to be free. That seems important to you and your people, so...can you help? I'm not asking for a miracle, just for me. I want...a guide. An idea. A hint. I want to know how to free myself, without destroying myself. I'd—I don't know what you want, or what I can give you, but I can promise a couple of things. I'm going to help King Rob beat up those Seven-followers. I don't know if you care about that, but it seems like you might. But if that's not enough...I was thinking of becoming a druid. I'd gladly follow you, even if I know more about Obad-Hai and Ehlonna. Just...give me a sign. Help me find my way to you. Please."

The night was silent, the way only night can be.

"I...can you at least give me a sign that I'm not doing this for nothing? That I _can_ be free, that I'm not crazy?"

A breeze shook the tree. It almost looked like it was nodding.

"I...thank you. I think."


	7. Marak

"...Once I and the other Drowned Men are onshore," Aeron Damphair said, "you are to row away from the island. Not so far that you can't see us, but far enough that anything onshore cannot reach you."

"What are you expecting to come and get us?" one of the oar-thralls asked. "Grumpkins? Snarks?"

Marak stared at the slave. He must have been recently-captured or unusually stubborn; most thralls would have learned better than to question an Ironborn's command. Many of them would throw a thrall overboard for such lip, many more would if they were in a bad mood, but Aeron was softer than they. Or perhaps more desperate; the tiny longship had only Aeron, Marak, several other Drowned Men, and enough thralls to allow them to arrive as quickly as possible.

Regardless, Aeron responded not with a blow but with an explanation. "You might as well know. Listen up, the rest of you, so that you will know what to expect. As I told my Drowned Men, I received a vision from the Drowned God. This island, Ferrfeld, was visited by a visitor, cursed by both the Drowned God and the Storm God. His curse spread to the village on Ferrfeld, its people and livestock, turning them into shapeless ravening monsters. There things hate any form of order, any beings which do not share their curse. For now, they are content to try and corrupt the few villagers who have managed to hold back the monsters...but nothing stops them from taking to the seas, swimming like eels or crawling like lobsters."

The thralls stared at Aeron. None of them believed it—though Marak couldn't hold that against them when _he_ didn't. _Well, it don't matter right now. In an hour or two, either I'll be laughing at old Aeron with the rest of the ship, or I'll be fighting for my life, and nothing I believe now will change that._

~M~

Marak looked over the island, if you could call it that. It was a scrap of rock, a few hundred acres of which poked above the water's surface. Some sand had been washed over it, particularly near the water, and some of this sand had grass growing in it; however, most of the rock had nothing more than lichens and moss. There were a handful of huts near a crude pier with a small fishing boat tied to it. One hut had a small garden dug next to it, but nearly the whole island had been left to the sheep.

Had been. Now, the sheep were no more. Instead, there were a few dozen...things. Damphair had called them monsters, formless things, but Marak hadn't imagined anything like _this_. Blobs of quivering flesh, limbs and wings and tentacles and maws and tails and appendages Marak couldn't put a name to springing from extended masses of chaos, lashing out at a structure or trying to support the rest of its unstable frame. Sometimes, a few limbs stayed strong and stable enough for the creatures to lurch to what passed for feet, walking for a few steps, but mostly they slithered or dragged themselves along the ground. About one in three beat at the largest hut with flimsy limbs, while the others wandered the island or fought among themselves. A worrisome number had torn themselves away from these activities to watch the boat sail closer to the island.

"Fear not," Damphair uttered quietly. "The Drowned God will protect us."

"That which is dead may never die," Marak said. "Those things..."

"They live," Damphair admitted. "But the Drowned God will shield us from their curse..." He stared at the island. "It would be wise to avoid touching them, however. And any who fall victim to the curse should be killed before they...change."

Marak and the others nodded silently.

"This will be a great test of your strength," Damphair said, "both your strength of arms and your strength of faith. But our foes are cursed by both the Drowned God and the Storm God. We cannot fail."

Damphair took an empty skin and filled it with seawater, before pouring the water over Marak. He muttered a litany, a prayer for protection, before repeating the process with the seven other Drowned Men, and then himself. "Bring us close enough that we can wade to shore, but no farther. Once we are out, go to deeper water, but not out of sight. Drowned Men, stay in the sea—deep enough to impede them and stay in contact with seawater, but not so deep you cannot fight. What is dead may never die."

"But rises again, harder and stronger," Marak and the others replied.

"Damphair," said the oar-thrall who spoke out against him. "May the Old Gods and the new protect you."

Damphair nodded, accepting the blasphemy as if it were a blessing. "And you as well."

~M~

The battle was fierce. The monsters poured into the water, and while they were even more clumsy in water than on land, they were still terrifying. Most of the Drowned Men fell, one by one. One man was mauled by the claws and teeth of the monsters, slowly bleeding to death as he fought. The beasts' corruption caught him by the end, but he died before it came to matter. Four others succumbed to it; two drowned themselves, one submitted to Aeron and had his head smashed, and the last tried to take as many monsters with him as he could but became a mindless, formless monster before he died. Another man was literally crushed under the weight of a dozen or more monsters, and one more lost his nerve and fled into the waters. The ocean's current swept him away, never to be seen again. The worst was when one of the monsters swam past the Drowned Men and made it to the boat. Marak did not see what transpired, but it ended with the boat sinking, most of the thralls dead or transformed, and the mouthy one fleeing to Aeron's side, where he was given a dead man's cudgel and told to fight.

Marak was exhausted at the end, but alive. So few others could claim the same. He, Damphair, and the thrall were the only survivors. But through the grace of the Drowned God (and, perhaps, the Storm God, and maybe even some of the thrall's gods), the monsters lay dead. Their amorphous bodies were not easily broken, but when struck enough they simply fell dead.

The three survivors quickly swept the island. They found scattered items, clothes of the inhabitants, their tools and worldly possessions. One pile in particular interested the thrall; after Aeron stated that they might as well have paid the iron price for it, the belongings were divided up. Marak got a chain mail shirt and a tunic, as well as the weapons present—a sword, a crossbow, and some kind of strangely-shaped mace. (Or perhaps a scepter.) The thrall took the boots and breeches, as well as both rings. Damphair's choices were unusual—an amulet, a bottle, a rope, a hat, a pair of spectacles, and some strange device composed of a tank of fluid with some sort of rope attached to one end.

By then, the last villagers had come out of the large hut. An old woman leading a boy no more than ten, and a middle-aged woman with the eyes that spoke of deep loss. Damphair greeted them, and told them that they were safe, but needed to take the fishing boat to go elsewhere. Anywhere else. They agreed readily, thanking him, Marak, and the thrall profusely for their help.

The child interrupted them. "What were those things? Why did they come here? Does it have to do with the shadow man?"

Damphair turned to the child. "What 'shadow man'?"

The child explained, with the women filling in the gaps where they could. On the day the red comet appeared, a misshapen man—one afflicted with the formless curse—was dropped onto Ferrfeld's shores with a sound of thunder. After a few minutes, the man transformed into one of the ravening monsters Marak and the others had fought. The child, and apparently only the child, had noticed a man made of shadows walking around, before he was dragged into the hut by his grandmother.

A quick inspection of the island quickly found this "shadow-man," curled up in one of the other huts. He looked like a caricature made of solid black smoke, thin and crooked, with sharp features and dull eyes. The man was dressed in garb which looked similar to the pile which they robbed, from the chainmail shirt to the grimy boots to the jewelry. He lay there, muttering gibberish. He barely reacted to Damphair's voice, and when Marak struck the shadow-man with the sword, he dissipated for a moment before starting to reform. The shadow-man wandered out of the hut after reforming, before curling up in the large hut.

Damphair decided to bring the shadow-man with them. "If any of the monsters escaped," he said, "this man—or whatever he is—likely knows more about them than any of us."

"Could they have escaped?" the old woman asked.

Damphair's expression darkened. "We killed many of them," he said, "but we did not count. I believe we killed them all...but if one was swept away by the waves, or hid beneath the ocean's surface and swam away, how could I tell?"

These were the thoughts that occupied Marak as he helped the others load what supplies and useful items they could find onto the crowded fishing boat, and as they sailed for Harlaw with all the haste they could muster.


End file.
